Yesterday I had my 33rd birthday, and I also hit my 36 weeks pregnant mark. Needless to say, this particular birthday has been unlike any other I’ve had.
I feel strong. Yes, every inch of my body aches, my feet are unrecognizable, and I basically need a pregnant lady crane to get upright these days, but I can’t stop looking at my bump. I feel like that bump is one of my best accomplishments in life. I’ve managed to grow a really big, perfect, incredibly wiggly kicker of a bump. I’ve avoided all the stretch mark remedies because I want to see the full progress my skin has made growing that bump–they are my own growth chart. I’m already starting to miss being pregnant even though I can’t wait for this H sprout to get here. It’s going to be strange not to have my constant companion this close. Kicking my iPad off of my belly when I’m watching TV, wiggling like crazy when I’m (she’s) hungry or reading a really great story to the kids at school. In complete honesty I can say that I’ve loved every single minute of being pregnant, even the far from glamorous ones.